To the King

Chapter Twenty

The Attitude of Honor

“I would prefer even to fail with honor than to win by cheating.”
- Sophocles

As he always did, Faramir marveled as he walked into the royal stables at Edoras. Never had he seen a stable so beautifully wrought and designed. How like the Rohirrim to lavish such care on the abode of their beloved mounts. He paused for a moment to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dimmer light, for the sun outside was extremely bright this afternoon. As his eyes adjusted, Faramir admired the stabled horses, awed at the quality of horseflesh arrayed before him. No horses in Middle Earth were better than these, nor more lovingly tended…each loved almost as much as dear child by their riders.

From the back of the stables Faramir could hear grunting and soft talking so he followed those sounds. He found Hammock using a hoof pick on Firefoot, grunting as the brute leaned against him. Faramir could not help but smile at the one sided berating going on.

“You care a great deal for him, don’t you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling in mirth.

Hammock started slightly and met his eyes, embarrassment showing at being caught cursing at the king’s mount. “Forgive me, my lord…”

“No,” Faramir hastened to interrupt, “forgive me for interrupting you. I was simply amused at the relationship you seem to have with Firefoot. I did not mean to disturb your work.”

Hammock finished his task and dropped Firefoot’s hoof. He patted the gray on the flank and stepped out of the stall. “No interruption, my lord. Is there something I can do for you…prepare a mount perhaps?”

“No, no,” said Faramir, staring at the man from under his fox colored lashes…suddenly insecure. “I came because Hálith told me that you knew my brother.”

“Lord Boromir saved my life, my lord. I owe him everything.”

“I never heard this,” marveled Faramir. “Hammock, your name is Hammock is it not?”

“Yes, my lord,” murmured the farrier. Though uncomfortable to be in the company of the Steward of Gondor, Hammock sensed the kindness as well as the unease in the man before him. “Would you like for me to tell you what I remember of him, my lord?”

Faramir’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes, Hammock. If you would I would be most appreciative, and please call me Faramir. Forget my title and just talk to me as a man who is hungry to hear a story about his brother. Boromir always said that if a man lived for the past he would lose the present, but I was still young when Boromir assumed command as Captain General and I know little of his early exploits. Hálith said that Boromir freed you?”

“Yes, my lord…I mean, Faramir, he freed me from slavery.” Slowly Hammock began to tell the story. For his part, Faramir listened with rapt attention, longing to hear a story that would help him to once again feel connected to Boromir. For over an hour the man told his story, interrupted often by the Steward with questions about the Captain General. Hammock could see how desperate the young man was to hear this unknown tale of his brother’s kindness.

“He took me under his wing,” finished Hammock, “made me feel human once again. That gift I can never repay, except now perhaps to his brother.”

“That was Boromir,” said Faramir softly, almost dreamily. “He always fought for the oppressed. I was just five when our mother passed beyond the veil, and Boromir took it upon himself, though only ten years old, to see that I was lavished with all the love and care that he could give me.” He sighed, lost in a memory that was his alone.

Presently Hammock cleared his throat. “There isn’t more I can tell you. I wish there was.”

Faramir met his eyes gratefully. “You have told me more than enough, Hammock, and I thank you for it.” He stood and put his hand on the farrier’s shoulder. “I have kept you from your work too long, but I have just one more question.”

“Anything I can tell you I will be happy to do so, Lord Faramir.”

“Hálith has asked me to teach him how to scout. We thought to leave in a day or two for a brief scouting foray. Would you join us?”

Hammock was momentarily rendered speechless. “You would want me to accompany you?”

“I would be honored,” answered Faramir. “Please say that you will come.”

Hammock smiled and nodded his head, wondering at the strange twist of fate that had so allowed the threads of his life’s tapestry to become interwoven with the canvas of both Hurin brothers. “I will be glad to come.”

O-o-O-o-O

He became aware of the pain first. It seemed far away in the beginning, like something that he should perhaps bother with eventually, just not yet. But like a bad tooth that you can’t stop worrying with your tongue, it would not be ignored. Reluctantly, consciousness followed the niggling pain, drawing the warrior from the comforting prison of darkness where he was presently residing. A soft groan escaped his lips as the pounding in his head reached epic proportions.

Immediately Erkenbrand was by the warrior’s side. “Easy, old friend,” he cautioned, holding a small cup of water to the man’s lips. “Sip this,” he urged. The Marshal cursed at the chains hampering his movements.

Before Gamling could even get his eyes to open he was aware of Erkenbrand’s voice and then the wonderfully soothing liquid dribbling down his parched throat.

The two men were manacled to the wall of a tunnel, the movement of their arms and legs severely limited. It was dark and dank where they were being held, and Erkenbrand could hear what sounded like hammering in the distance though he could not see another soul but Gamling at the moment. Blood oozed down the side of Gamling’s pale face from the vicious cut in his scalp. There was also a lump on the man’s head from where he’d been bashed with the hilt of a rather large knife.

“How does your head feel?” Erkenbrand asked.

“Worse than it did the day after you got me drunk for the first time in my life,” mumbled Gamling. “Does that answer your question?”

“I see you have not lost your sense of humor.” Erkenbrand tried to help the man sit up. “Damn these chains! I cannot use both of my arms to help you. Move slowly, Gamling, you have been dead to the world for most of a full day now.”

“A full day?” Gamling marveled. “A night and a day have passed since we arrivied at Snowbourne?”

Erkenbrand nodded grimly.

Gamling used the leverage that Erkenbrand’s massive arm gave him to work his way gingerly up into a sitting position. He was panting from the exertion by the time he finished. “Thank you, my friend. You have more strength in one arm than most men I know in both.”

“My father ran a breeding station. I spent my youth hefting foals. A lot of good that strength did us yesterday,” added Erkenbrand bitterly. “I am sorry, Gamling. I should have listened to my own instincts. What an old fool I have become.”

Gamling shook his head slightly as he eyed his former Marshal. “I would have you by my side any day of the week. Neither of us expected trouble here.”

Erkenbrand snorted. “No? Well the king’s instincts were certainly on the mark. I should not have doubted him.”

“You doubted him?” asked Gamling, somewhat surprised. “You knew that Snowbourne did not answer the muster.”

“Yes, I knew, but I believed that there must be a logical reason. I have known Marshal Garoth for many years; I could not believe that he would commit treason.”

“So you doubted Éomer?” Gamling said quietly.

“Not the man, Gamling, never the man. His honor is beyond question. It was his vehemence that I questioned, I am sorry to say.”

“I have had the privilege of watching Éomer closely for the past few years. His instincts are uncanny. He will make a fine king.”

“Let us hope that his instincts do not fail him now,” replied Erkenbrand darkly as thunder rumbled across sky mirroring the Marshal’s mood.

“Why do you mean by that?” asked Gamling.

“Those brigands took my ring, Gamling. They mean to send a message back to Edoras under my seal. I know not what harm my foolishness has unleashed.”

O-o-O-o-O

As the rains fell, Margeth walked as quickly as she could to her small home located at the edge of the Snowbourne encampment. Her slim shoulders were slumped by fatigue and discouragement, for it had been another trying day. The woman and her husband worked long hours in the manor house and longed for the blessed relief that returning to their small cottage each night afforded. Here she and Barech could relish the peace that home and hearth provided…could feel a breath of freedom in the memories of better days that seemed all the more real when spoken of within these humble walls.

Stepping in the door she hung her dripping shawl on a peg by the door, her mind already on how they would share a simple fare of soup, bread and ale. Margeth moved across the darkened room unerringly. For all the years of her marriage this small house had been her home, the place where she had borne and raised three sons. Margeth’s heart lurched, as it always did, when she though about her boys. The two oldest were lost to her…killed during the years of constant war against the evil ones. The youngest Raolf, please Béma let it be, was still alive and being held with the other warriors forced now to work in the long abandoned mines.

The woman had just gotten the fire in the hearth blazing when a noise startled her. Spinning to look towards the source of the sound, Margeth gave a small gasp as a form materialized from the darkened corner.

“Raolf?” she breathed. But it could not be Raolf, could it?

The shadow continued to move towards her haltingly as she stood frozen, her eyes unable to make sense of what she was seeing. Slowly the boy stumbled towards the light, finally revealing young features marred by pain and grief.

Margeth could see that it the young man was not Raolf, but she did not know him. What was clear to her though was that the young man was in pain. There was blood dripping onto the floor from a wound she could not see. Still she could not force herself to move.

“Who are you?” she finally managed to murmur.

“Please, help me,” breathed the young one. “I could not go further.” He stumbled and fell against the table, catching himself by bending over the wooden structure.

Her fatigue forgotten, Margeth found her legs. She rushed over to the man and guided him to the closest chair. She could now see the shaft of an arrow protruding from his back. She helped the boy to put his head down on the table when he moaned and appeared to grow faint. “Here lad,” she soothed, “just rest here a moment. Keep your head down until the dizziness recedes.”

“I am grieved to have frightened you, mother. I knew that I could not elude them in the mountains as wounded as I am, yet I must survive to summon help for my Marshal.”

“You poor dear, you are soaked through.” The woman poured some water from the pitcher on the table onto the edge of her apron and began stroking the back of the boy’s neck and washing the mud from his face. “Here, rest easy, this should help to settle your stomach. Just take deep breaths.” She took his hand in her own, a simple move of comfort common to all mothers. “Ach, your hands are like ice.What is your name, son?”

“Dageth, my name is Dageth.”

The woman could not help but smile. “Our names are similar. Do you come from the Westfold perhaps?”

“Yes,” said Dageth softly. “Have you any word of the Marshals or my éored?”

“They live,” replied Margeth bitterly. “Gilmóod always keep them alive to work in the mines, if you can call that living.”

Dageth tried to rise. “I must help them…” His voice ended in a soft groan as he slumped back against the table.

Margeth was by his side immediately. “You’re not going anywhere in this condition or it will be the last journey you ever take. You’ll be no good to them if you’re dead, now will you?”

The young scout could only nod as the kindly woman once again place the damp edge of her apron against the back of his neck.

“My husband will be home soon. He will help me get you to our son’s bed. You will be safe here until we can figure out what to do.” Margeth prayed her words were the truth, for she had no idea what went on in the great hall and whether or not Gilmóod’s men were even now search door to door for the young man.

The door opened admitting a blast of cold rain into the room causing Margeth to jump in fright before she realized that it was Barech entering the house.

Barech paused for a moment when he caught sight of his wife's frightened face. “What …” his voice faltered when he realized his wife leaned over a warrior.

“What is this?” he breathed, hurriedly closing the door behind him with a fearful glance backward. He pulled off his sodden cloak and it placed on the peg besides his wife’s shawl.

“Not what, husband…who,” replied the woman as she bathed Dageth’s neck and face. “Help me get him to Raolf’s bed. Then get him out of these clothes while I put on some water to boil. We must get that arrow out of his back.”

Barech hurried over to the table to help his wife. He recognized Dageth as the scout he had tried to warn with his eyes. “They will kill us if they find out we are hiding him.”

“You are the one who told me not to lose faith.” Margeth grunted slightly as she helped her husband with the man. “Besides, you would no sooner turn your back on a wounded man than I would.”

“No, of course I would not,” admitted Barech. “I was just surprised and concerned for you, my dear.”

Together they helped Dageth to a small bed situated off to the side of the room behind a wood and canvas partition. The couple carefully guided him to sit on the side of the bed so that his leather jerkin could be unlaced. As an advance scout, he had not worn the heavy armor normally worn by the éoreds.

“Bring me a knife, wife, for I must cut away the jerkin from around the arrow. It looks to be lodged in his shoulder, thanks be to Béma. Had it been lower it likely would have been a mortal wound.”

After Barech had gingerly removed the scout’s clothing and had the man settled on his stomach on the small bed, he worked to remove the arrow shaft aided by Margeth. The woman had given the warrior a strip of leather to hold between his teeth as her husband dug at the buried shaft. She did what she could to help Barech while comforting Dageth and wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Not much longer now, child," she soothed. "Your mother would be proud of how brave her son is."

It took over an hour for Barech to painstakingly remove the arrow and search for the few shards that had splintered off. By the time he finished Dageth had passed out. Barech carefully wrapped the shoulder and covered the young man. He was ashen from fatigue, exhausted beyond belief as he looked at his wife. "I have done all I can. It is in Bema's hands now."

TBC